


Wings on Fire

by DarkHeartInTheSky



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dean/Castiel Reverse Bang 2018, God is kind of a dick, M/M, Mark of Cain, POV Castiel, Season/Series 10, Soul Bond, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-30 16:23:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15100559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkHeartInTheSky/pseuds/DarkHeartInTheSky
Summary: The spell from the Book of the Damned didn't work. But Rowena has something else up her sleeve.There are no ends to which Castiel won't travel to save Dean Winchester.





	Wings on Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Yes, I did another reverse bang this year! My lovely artist this time is [flightoftheseraph](https://flightoftheseraph.tumblr.com/)! Don't forget to check him out and give him lots of love! His wonderful art gave me the wonderful opportunity to do something different.
> 
> Don't be afraid of some of the tags, or the beginning. There is a happy ending. <3

 

This body wasn’t built for him.

.

.

.

  


Insufferably hot. Too tight. Pushing and pulling against each other, a wailing cacophony of _CasCasCasCas_ and his own response _I’mHereDeanI’mHereI’llNeverLetYouGo_

 

Castiel could feel the Mark burning against his grace, digging its claws into his essence. But Castiel wrapped his spirit around Dean’s soul, a protective cage, against that malevolence. He had to keep that demonic stain away from Dean’s soul.

 

_“There is something else you could try,” the witch said coyly, sucking the blood off her fingertips. “If you’re willing to pay the price.”_

 

_“I’ll give anything.”_

 

_“Are you sure about that? You know, people always say that--say that they’ll do anything, pay anything, to save a loved one. But when the devil comes to collect?” She huffed and looked away from him. “You shouldn’t say it if you don’t mean it.”_

 

_Castiel clenched his teeth. Molars cracked under the pressure and his grace flooded in and fixed it. “Rowena,” he snapped. “What do I have to do?”_

 

_Rowena smiled._

 

Dean’s body lay still on the floor of the abandoned Mexican restaurant, in between Sam’s and Castiel’s. The body was out of their control, but nor was it possessed by the Mark. They  were not yet fighting it for the steering wheel. The Mark kept trying to snake through Castiel’s protections, infect Dean’s soul and feed on it, but Castiel wouldn’t let it. Every ounce of his consciousness was spent on shielding Dean’s soul from that influence. A body was a body, but a soul--a soul was _everything_. The Outside World didn’t matter. The people--humanity--none of them mattered, not as long as Dean was endangered. His mission was to keep Dean’s soul safe. He retreated inward and did not fight for control of the vessel. That battle was not one to spend stamina on, not when the Mark was consistently looking for ways to get past him and go straight to Dean.

 

So Castiel blocked it all away. The greens and pinks of nature that he had envied from afar in Heaven, he no longer saw. The calls of the animals did not reach his ears. Prayers from the sick, the dying, the subjugated, the damned went unheeded.

 

_DeanDeanProtectDeanProtectDeanSaveTheRighteousManDoNotLetThatTaintComeNearHim._

 

Dean spoke too, his mind and soul intertwined with Castiel’s, inseparable now; bonded in a way no man and angel had ever been before, more intimate than lovers. Not even the line of women that lay with angels and bore Nephilim were as bonded as Dean and Castiel were now. Two spirits, forever tied together, in planes that went beyond the highest reaches of Heaven and the lowest pits of Hell.

 

_CasDon’tLeaveMeDon’tLeaveMeCasINeedYouINeedYouHere_

 

_IWon’tEverLeaveYouNotEverI’mHereDeanRightHere_

 

The Mark clawed and snapped at Castiel, just as snake-like and monstrous as its creator.

 

_Sam was on the ground, facedown. Castiel’s breath rattled against his ribs. Words tore at his throat and refused to be let free. Dean was on his knees, Death’s Scythe held loosely between bloody fingers. Death stood behind Dean, a watchful, patient guardian._

 

_“It didn’t work,” Dean said, voice barely audible. Castiel saw Dean’s soul; saw the beauty fickle and constrict against the Hell-black tendrils of the Mark that crawled up and around Dean’s soul. The Mark was going to win. It was going to consume Dean from inside-out._

 

_Castiel had to do it. He shoved the spell into Death’s hands. “Do it!” he snapped._

 

_Death looked at Castiel, disdain dripping from his features. “Who are you to order me?”_

 

_“Do it!”_

 

_Death snarled. Read the incantation. And then Castiel was on fire._

 

Years ago, Castiel uncovered that Heaven planned to orchestrate the Apocalypse by manipulating the Winchesters into believing they were stopping it. Before he could warn the brothers, he’d been recalled back to Heaven. Zachariah had taken him apart piece by piece, questioning each segment, asking for loyalty, motive. _Who do you serve, Castiel_ , he asked each time the tip of his blade connected with Castiel’s flesh and grace. Zachariah took him apart and then sloppily put him back together. It had hurt worse than the Hell Fire that burned at his wings, boring pains that would never truly heal.

 

This, now, hurt worse than that. The Mark was relentless, never stopping or slowly. It wasn’t something that could reasoned with, or appeased, like Zachariah. It wasn’t selfish or sadistic--it just was; existing only to exist, like an animal, it was only concerned with its own survival, saiting its own hunger at any costs.

 

Time began to become lost to Castiel. His grace was so engrossed with Dean’s soul, every thought consumed with the ache to protect, protect, protect. He failed Sam. Failed Sam in the worst possible way; he could not let Sam die in vain. Could not let Hell claim Dean again. He would take all the pain, every bite the Mark took of his grace and wings, if it meant Dean Winchester would be unharmed, remain pure and good, like Castiel knew he was.

 

The moment Castiel touched Dean Winchester’s soul, down in the dark recesses of that abominable pit, so far away from Heaven, the Host, God--he was lost. The moment Castiel touched Dean Winchester’s soul, he belonged to Dean.

 

This body was not supposed to be his. This body had been forged by the hands of Heaven for Michael and Michael alone. It did not fit--too loose and baggy, limbs hanging awkwardly off his true form, like a child playing in their father’s boots. But he had to make sure the Mark would not fill in the empty spaces.

 

 _Is that you Cas_ ? Dean asked once, unnaturally quiet and timid. _Is that what you really look like_?

 

 _Don’t look, Dean_ , Castiel tried to soothe.

 

_But it’s so--wow. It’s so pretty._

 

Castiel wasn’t sure about that. Hellfire had scarred him permanently; falling from Heaven marked him in ways that only were comparable to what Lucifer bore.

 

 _So pretty_ , Dean said.

 

Castiel wrapped his wings around Dean’s soul, cradling it.

 

_I’ll pull you out of Hell again. If it’s the last thing I do, I will save you._

 

.

.

.

 

Melded there, together, in the darkness, the recesses of Dean’s mind, Castiel wondered why they waited so long. Years, they danced around each other. Pretended this thing between them didn’t exist, or wasn’t as substantial as it was.

 

Before rescuing Dean from Hell, Castiel often wondered what it was like to be human. Standing guard by the Gates of Heaven, he watched from afar the humans live about their lives. He filtered their prayers through “angel radio” a silent listener, prohibited from coming to any of their aide, no matter how dire, how desperately they pleaded to God.

 

“It is not our duty to interfere,” Zachariah had said, and Castiel couldn’t help but wince at the blaring prayer that ricocheted against skull, a woman begging for something to heal her dying baby. “It is only our duty to watch and wait until the Time comes.”

 

Castiel wondered it was like to sleep, dream, awaken. Wondered what it was like to laugh and weep. But mostly Castiel wondered what it was like to love. He watched for millennia this thing called love inspire his Father’s greatest creations; inspire them to go beyond their physical capabilities.

 

When Castiel touched Dean Winchester in Hell, he knew love.

 

He never imagined it to be like this; a gnawing, throbbing claw around his heart. It was a beautiful thing, though. His reason for being. Millennia he lived--so long he was not even sure of the length--without knowing Dean Winchester.

 

Less than ten years he had known Dean. He could not imagine a life without Dean. Could not bear to live in a world where Dean Winchester’s soul was not the light of his existence.

 

He threw away everything--Heaven, God, the his angelic family--for one man in less than a single Earthly year. One single, simple, damaged man.

 

But Dean was more than that. Dean was--Dean was indescribable.

 

Dean Winchester was worth everything Castiel gave up.

 

And he would not give up on Dean now. Castiel would not lose Dean to the talons of Hell again.

 

Castiel lost track of time as his grace melded through Dean’s soul, fighting against the Mark every time it dared to snake closer, dared to try to infect that aura.

 

 _I’ll protect you_ , Castiel whispered, close against Dean’s soul. The edges were blurred; there was no definition between them now--they were one and the same. _I’ll never let you go._

 

 _Cas_. Dean’s soul brushed against him, tenderly, cautiously. Like a child reaching for its mother hand.

 

 _Wherever you go, I go,_ Castiel said. Dean’s soul relaxed in his presence and sighed happily.

 

The Mark flared.  

 

.

.

.

_I’m sorry Cas._

 

_For what?_

 

_What I did. At--at the bunker. What I almost did._

 

_It wasn’t you._

 

_But it was. It was all me. Everything--I chose to do it all._

 

_The Mark corrupted you, but you are not the Mark._

 

 _Cas--Cas--Why? How can you----_ the word gets blurred in Dean’s mind; even his soul is afraid to say it; afraid of the outcome, the vulnerability it puts upon him. _How can you ---- me?_

 

_I should be asking you that._

 

_You’re an angel and I’m...I’m…._

 

_A good man. The greatest I’ve ever known, and I walked the desert with Moses, sat council to Solomon. I don’t deserve your love, Dean Winchester, not in any capacity._

 

_The things I’ve done…._

 

_Hush. I see your soul and it is good. Pure._

.

.

.

 

Together like they were, soul and grace melded like water and air, thoughts stitched closely together, they knew not where one ended and the next began, Castiel wondered about God.

 

He thought about his father a lot. More often than he liked to admit. Alone on the dark, winding roads of Midwestern America, with little else to occupy his mind, and each tick-tocking second gnawing at his conscience, he wondered where God was. What he thought about everything--the world, humanity, the Winchesters, Castiel. He long gave up hope of Father ever showing his face; only four angels had ever been blessed and favored enough to gaze upon the grace and presence of God. Castiel was not one of them.

 

He wondered, still, why everything he’d been taught about his Father had been a lie. God used to be present in every molecule of his being, and Castiel could see his Father’s hand etched into everything in existence; every organism, from the most measly of houseflies to the great blue whales; from a single blade of grass to the very tip of Mount Everest.

Now, Castiel tried to see the beauty of humanity. He had learned that it was humans, not God, not angels, that made Earth so wonderful. When he’d been human briefly, he had experienced it firsthand. Another homeless man sharing his food. A woman handing him a cup of coffee on the street corner. A teenager dropping a few dollar bills in front of him. Little, everyday acts that humans did for one another, simply out of their humanity and nothing else. Castiel had experienced no such thing among the Host of angels.

 

And of course, everything the Winchesters did. The sacrifices they made, the tortures they endured, so that the world could be a better, safer place, not for themselves, but for others--for strangers they would never meet, people that would never be aware of what went bump in the night.

 

God didn’t care. He didn’t give a damn about any of them. When Dean had first made the implication, Castiel had been horrified and offended at the blasphemy, offended that a mere human--nothing more than a single, tiny blip on the radar of humanity--would dare to insult God.

 

But Castiel knew better now. Dean had been right. They couldn’t ever count on God. They had to fix their own problems through determination, grit, and that old dose of Winchester luck.

 

So when Castiel heard that voice, he was stunned speechless.

 

“Castiel, my son. Come.”

 

.

.

.

 

Castiel did not know how long he’d been in the darkness, fighting off the Mark, every iota of his being shielding Dean. But one second it was darkness and the next it was light--a white, blinding light. Then there was the sense of warmth--it flooded through him, every iota of his being, like a drink of hot chocolate on a bitter, winter night--and he’d had more than one of those back when he was human, crouched uncomfortably in the Gas N Sip storeroom.

 

The light dimmed and for the first time in a long time he saw.

 

He knew instantly.

 

“Father?”

 

The Being that wore the face he once thought was the prophet Chuck smiled. “Hello, Castiel.”

 

“I don’t understand.”

 

Chuck smiled. “You don’t have to.”

 

“All this time. . .” Castiel swallowed against the lump that swelled in his throat; a hot balloon of agony. “All that time I was looking, you were right there?”

 

“I was.”

 

“But. . .” Words were lost to him. “I begged.”

 

“I know,” and, at the very least, Chuck at the decency to look ashamed. “But, if I stopped anything, if I reached out, it wouldn’t be free will. Kids gotta land on their own two feet eventually, and if I did anything to stop anyone, well. I guess I’d be a hypocrite.”

 

Castiel shuddered and forced down his fury. “Why are you here now?”

 

“I’m here to make you a deal.”

 

Castiel scoffed.

 

“What you’re doing for Dean, it’s very brave. No angel has ever tied themselves to a human before.”

 

“I’m aware,” Castiel snarled. “Since you wouldn’t help us, I had to find someone to save Dean’s soul. And Sam--” Castiel’s breath hitched at the thought of Sam-- “Sam gave everything for Dean, and I would not give anything less than my life for either of them.”

 

Chuck grinned again. “No need to worry about, Sam. He’s been looking for a way to break out ever since he woke up in his Heaven. Nothing gets past him. He’s impressed with the work you’re doing.”

 

Castiel glared. Chuck chuckled.

 

“Binding yourself, your grace, to Dean’s soul--very out of the box thinking. Not what I’d expect from an angel. And it’s done a remarkable job at fighting off the toxicity of the Mark, but you and I both know it’s not a solution.”

 

“It’s saving Dean’s soul,” Castiel spat.

 

“But at what cost? For you both to be trapped in darkness forever? Not living, not dead, but stuck in some in-between state? Castiel, come on. Even you know that’s a fate worse than Hell.”

 

Castiel’s nostrils flared. “What. Is. Your. Deal?”

The smile melted off Chuck’s face. For the first time, Castiel could see the rage of the all powerful God etched into the features of the face he wore. This was the God that ordered the slaying of Isaac, the God that flooded the Earth and annihilated all but a single family, the God that slaughtered the first borns of Egypt.

 

And, Castiel realized, he didn’t care. He’d do anything for Dean. Anything. And he would not let anybody--not even God--stall on a solution to save him.

 

“The Mark cannot be destroyed. It houses an evil older than time itself. It’s as true as I am. But, it’s still demonic in nature, and therefore it can’t ever hope to stand up to an angelic force. But your grace battling it off leaves Dean in a comatose state--I’d hardly call that saving, would you?

 

“So, the Mark cannot be destroyed, not entirely. But it can be shared.”

 

Castiel’s breath stiled in his chest; his lungs rattled inside his ribs.

 

“I can split the Mark between you and Dean. And then I can split your grace between you and Dean. Split, the Mark is nowhere near as powerful. And then your grace will prevent the Mark from corrupting Dean’s soul; and as long as you have grace, the Mark cannot corrupt you.”

 

“Dean’s soul will be unharmed? When he dies a mortal death, he’ll go to Heaven?”

 

“For the good Dean has done for humanity, he will be allowed in.”

 

“And Sam?”

 

Chuck grinned casually and carelessly--there was that dichotomy again; the inability for Castiel to comprehend that this was his Father. The man that cowered and hid in a ratty old house. The man that stood beside him as Raphael tore him apart.

 

“Sam will be fine. I swear it. Always did have a soft spot for him. Actually, he’s been causing quite a ruckus up in Heaven and well--we can’t have that, can we? Now: do we have a deal?”

 

Chuck stuck out his hand. Castiel didn’t hesitate. He took it and shook once, hard.

 

“That’s my boy.”

 

.

.

.

 

Castiel’s eyes burst open and and he sat up straight, gasping for air. Every cell inside his body ached and trembled under his bones. He clutched his chest, heart slamming against his ribs.

 

“Cas?”

 

Castiel turned his head. It was Sam.

 

“Sam?”

 

Sam broke into an easy grin. He threw his arms around Castiel’s neck. Castiel was taken aback at first, but within a second he returned the hug and sighed. He was engulfed in the familiar scent of Sam’s shampoo and cologne.

 

“You’re okay,” Castiel said, fighting against the tightness in his throat. “I thought I’d failed you.”

 

“I knew you’d never give up on Dean. I knew you’d do anything to save him.”

 

Sam broke the hug. They both looked at Dean who was starting to stir.

 

Sam looked at Castiel again. He turned over Castiel’s arm. The Mark was there, right below his elbow; but it was not the malicious, angry shade of red that had tattooed Dean’s arm. It was a light pink, and Castiel could not even feel it. He could barely feel his grace too--it was just a quiet hum in the back of his head, nearly drowned out by all the human urges that were now calling to him: sleep, food.

 

Dean groaned and both Castiel and Sam moved to help him. Castiel studied Dean’s arm and noted it was just like his--the Mark a pale, dusty pink.

 

Dean’s eyes cracked open and he coughed. “What’d I miss?”

 

Castiel smiled.

 

.

.

.

 

They got back to the bunker, and, in silent agreement, Castiel followed Dean to his room. Sam didn’t even try to follow them, but he had stared at them the entire drive to the bunker; he hadn’t even questioned when Dean climbed into the backseat beside Cas, leaving Sam alone up front to drive.

 

Dean closed the door softly behind him and stared down at his arm. He flexed and a small sliver of blue crawled over the faded Mark then slowly dissipated.

 

“It feels weird,” Dean said. “Like a tickle.”

 

Castiel took Dean’s hand in his.

 

“It was weird. You being in my head and all that. But. . . nice.”

 

“Nice?”

 

“Yeah,” Dean kept staring at his arm. With his free hand he traced his fingertips over the Mark. “Comforting. You were--you were right there and I couldn’t feel the Mark, like at all. Even now. . .” Dean flexed again, and again, a splash of blue lit up and danced across the pale skin. Dean looked up and met Castiel’s eyes. “Thank you,” he said, with a level sincerity Castiel rarely heard from Dean. “You-you didn’t have to do any of this, Cas. The Mark--it was my mistake. And after what I did--” Dean’s voice cracked and his eyes started to swell with tears. “What I said--”

 

“It wasn’t you,” Castiel said. He put his hand against Dean’s cheek. “I always knew it wasn’t you. And I would give anything, Dean Winchester. There is no ends to the Universe that I will not travel to protect you, or Sam.”

 

“But this is your grace. I mean, what’s gonna happen to you? Are you--are you human now?”

 

Castiel closed his eyes briefly; felt the hum of grace that was still left in his bones. It was a quiet hum barely there, buried deep under the surface. Underneath his fingertips he felt Dean’s heartbeat, steady and strong. Castiel opened his eyes.

 

“I’m just me,” he said, smiling softly. “I love you, Dean.”

 

Dean swallowed. “Me too. I mean--”

 

“I know what you mean,” Castiel said, still smiling.

 

Dean shook his head. “No. No, I should say it--after everything you’ve done--” Tears started to slip down Dean’s cheeks. “I love you, Cas. I love you so much. You gave up your grace for me--you’re sharing the Mark with me. I don’t deserve any of it.”

 

“Shut up,” Castiel said gently. “You deserve everything I can give and more.” Castiel hesitated, then leaned forward, and pressed his lips against Dean’s. Dean returned it, just as soft, just as gentle.

 

Both their arms lit up in warm, blue.


End file.
